Several Pints, Three Brothers and One Bet
by running-in-circles2
Summary: October 2012. The British Government is convinced that England, Wales and Scotland must spend more time together if the state of the Union is to be improved. The solution? Send them to a pub and make them talk! Bonding, arguments and a bet that will eventually change the course of their lives ensues. Part 1 of the Too Good To Be True series.
1. Chapter 1

"You must be joking." England looked back at his Prime Minister with an incredulous look on his face.

David Cameron splayed his hands as if the idea wasn't completely preposterous.  
"Arthur, the truth is that the Better Together campaign is functional enough but we still can't sneeze at anything that would help improve the relationship on both sides of the border. Plainly put, we need to improve relations between Scotland and England if we want to quell the surge of pro-independence voters."

"Mr Cameron," – _Listen you twat,_ "I've informed you several times," – _bloody hammered it into your thick head_ , "that it doesn't work that way. Our people influence us. We don't influence them."

Cameron ducked his head in a show of having listened to England.  
"I do remember that, Arthur. But Salmond has made a good case for secession and we need to respond to that."  
 _You mean you're bloody terrified Scotland could actually leave._

"Would you like me to help the Better Together campaigners then?"  
"I'd rather you and your brothers interacted more – "  
England drew an exasperated breath to speak –  
"I know it won't influence our people, Arthur, but perhaps if feelings between you and Bruce were a little more…cordial, then you might both be a little less susceptible to the…more radical feelings of our people." Cameron responded.  
 _Jesus, we're not that desperate yet._

"And has Sc- Bruce agreed to this?"  
Cameron faltered almost imperceptibly. "Dylan has."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, formality forgotten this late on a Friday evening.  
"Clegg is taking to Bruce as we spe-"

Arthur snorted derisively. He couldn't help it. "Clegg? Clegg's persuading Bruce?"  
Cameron's wince wasn't as imperceptible this time. "We felt that I should speak to you while he spoke to Bruce. In any case," he rushed on, "This won't be too strenuous. I rather think you would want Bruce to remain in the Union?"  
 _I rather think you should get your Etonian arse home so I can go to mine._

"Of course, Mr Cameron," At least that wasn't a total lie.  
Cameron smiled politely. "Excellent. The three of you are due in Westminster for all of next week, we'll have someone drop the three of you off at a pub or something immediately afterwards, perhaps?"  
 _Hang on a bloody minute, I haven't agreed to_ – "A pub, Mr Cameron?"

Cameron pushed his lips out in that innocuously polite expression that England hated.  
"A more informal environment may help. Unfortunately, Patrick is still physically underage so this may not be something he can participate in."  
 _You mean he's not ruddy voting for his independence so you're not concerned._

Before England could reply with politely-disguised ridicule, there was a knock on the office door.  
"Ah, that'll be Clegg. Come in,"

England turned in his annoyingly comfortable leather chair to face a shorter man with mousy brown hair.  
"Mr Clegg," Cameron said cordially.  
Clegg walked into the room. "Arthur, Mr Cameron," he greeted. "Bruce has agreed to our, ah, idea."  
England snorted again, but mentally. _More like he did what had to to escape back to Edinburgh._

"Excellent," Cameron smiled again, "So this has been settled, Arthur?"

England groaned silently. He was defeated, then.


	2. Chapter 2

And this was how the following Thursday England found himself being carted out of Westminster in the backseat of a sleek black car with Wales and Scotland. They sat in broody silence for half an hour.

"Here we are." There first time someone spoke was when the suited young man pulled up in front of an artisan pub in a leafy London borough. He nodded his head helpfully towards the establishment, when none of them made a move, as if it wasn't obvious where they were supposed to go. Wales, nearest the door, sighed and got out.

"Right, I'll be back at half eight to pick you up." The suited man nodded at them again as England and Scotland clambered out. He drove off with a sleek purr in the quiet street. Chestnuts whispered their coppery songs as an October wind ghosted down the street.

Wales pulled his jacket around him as he turned to face the pub. "This'll be one of them gastro-things where they serve chips in those dinky metal buckets, then?"

"What else do you expect? It's London." said Scotland, throwing a smirk back at England.

England's teeth gritted. "You agreed to this."

They walked in, Scotland saying, "I was trying to get away from the eejit. Don't think I want this."

A blast of warm air hit them. The pub was packed. A corner was full of frequent flashes and the occasional giggle. Students. Another half seemed to be taken over by pinstriped businesspeople clutching lagers and watching the football on the high-def TV.

"Brilliant." Wales sighed.

"I'm not paying for the first round in here." Scotland put in quickly.

"It's on the government," supplied England, "We can claim work expenses for this apparently."

Scotland's face cracked into a shining grin. "I'll get the first round then, shall I?" He clapped England and Wales on the shoulders heartily and strode to the bar.

England and Wales shared a smirk and followed.

Three empty pint glasses sat at the table.

Three brothers sat around them.

The conversation had, of course, made a stop at the weather. The volatility of this took them through half of their pints, the other half was covered by watching the football match and making the casual comment. Now, it had ground to a halt.

England looked at Scotland. Scotland looked at Wales. Wales looked at England.

"Can't we just walk out? It's not like we have to be here," said Scotland at last.

England cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, why didn't you tell us you were hiding a car on your person?"

"I meant the tube, or a taxi or something."

England shook his head. "No tube station within walking distance, if you want to shell out the twenty or thirty quid for the taxi back to mine and then the last minute train fare back home, be my guest."

Scotland groaned.

"That's probably why they chose this pub," suggested Wales.

"What did they expect us to do, anyway?" snorted Scotland.

"Cameron seemed to think if he got us talking we'd have an emotional heart-to-heart. I dunno, cry or something."

They all looked at each other.

And burst out laughing.

And didn't stop. Wales spat out his beer in paroxysms of giggles. Scotland slammed his pint down and threw his head in his hands, gasping for breath through laughter. England grew red-faced, body shaking with amusement.

Eventually they sniggered themselves back to seriousness. "Only you, England, would be stupid enough to vote for that bloke."

England sobered up. "Well then vote yourself free and we'll watch your economy crash. At least you'll have free prescriptions, eh?"

Scotland glared. "Crash? Our economy has crashed because the government's sucked all my spare money out and deposited it in your lap."

England leaned forward angrily in the uncomfortable wooden chair –

"Come on, now," Wales interjected with a warning tone, "We've had this argument hundreds of times –"

"Well it seems the wee brat wants to have it again," growled Scotland.

"I never said I did. Leave if you want. I don't care." England's voice was dangerously close to shouting. But no-one missed the tremor in the last sentence.

"Stop." No-one missed the anger in Wales' voice either. "England, get the next round."

England did nothing.

"England!"

England sighed and stalked off to the bar.

"He's a right – "

"That is the last time we're talking about that tonight," interrupted Wales sharply.

Scotland cocked a sarcastic eyebrow. "'Course, mum."

Wales rolled his eyes.

But as England came back with three brimming pints, there was an unspoken move to not utter another word of independence until beer had anaesthetised the bad mood that Westminster weeks always seemed to bring on all of them.

An army of empty glasses cluttered the table, all but three deserted of any alcohol.

Scotland's roar of inebriated laughter could easily be heard throughout the entire pub. "Oh God, the look on his face, I swear I could have died."

Wales sniggered into his hands.

"Honestly Scotland, you scared the living daylights of him," snickered England.

"He was a right twat. I'm glad I did it."

Wales hiccoughed until he could slur the words "The best part was when you told him with a perfectly serious expression on your face that he could look under your kilt if he was so interested in it."

The lapsed into another round of laughter at Scotland's treatment of 19th century prime ministers. This, along with the euphoric high of alcohol, carried them through another pint.

The entire population of the pub had already classed them as "those drinkers".

Light had all but faded outside and the artfully-old clock ticked ever closer to half past eight. But England showed no signs of going anywhere. He loosed pathetic little sobs into his pint while Scotland looked on, exasperated. Fumes of intoxication lullabied the latter's brain into a sleepy stupor. The former's alcohol had clearly wrestled his brain for the reigns of his tear ducts.

Wales tried to awkwardly pat England on the back but in his drunken state it was more of a high-five to the face.

"I miss her so much," England gasped, "We barely even talk anymore…"

If he was sober, Scotland thought half-coherently, England would probably rather lose a battle against France than allow himself to sound so…emotional. Scotland shuddered away from the word.

"Talk to her then," he said brusquely.

England's eyes leaked anew. "She's so...she's just so beautiful,"

"Bloody hell, England." Scotland groaned.

"India," England drew out the name in a tearful sigh.

Scotland wrinkled his nose in disgust. At least stiff upper lip England could be laughed at. This England was…embarrassing.

"England!" he hissed quietly, "People are looking. Eejit." The other patrons had in fact been looking all afternoon, first with caution, then with disdain and now with tipsy amusement.

Scotland nursed his beer. Maybe if he blushed brightly enough, he would blend in somewhat with the walls.

They had to be hauled back to the car. Of course. The same young man was now grimacing under the burden of a drunk England staining his suit with the last of his tears while Scotland and Wales staggered around the car. He opened the door and all but flung the brothers in. England landed in an unsightly heap against the window and Scotland squashed up against him. As they purred through darkening streets to England's Berkshire house, Scotland threw a bone-crushingly tight arm around England, an occurrence that happened regularly when he was drunk and hadn't happened since Roman times when sober.

"If it were me, I would have had her already." His voice was husky with drink.

England said nothing.

"But you're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya?" Scotland chuckled, "I bet you can't get together with her. I bet you can't."

And at this England rumbled a drunken protest; a drunken protest that sounded angry. But Scotland didn't hear it. He first sniggered into England's fop of hair and soon after snored loudly against it. And England laid awake, heavily intoxicated and head crammed against the window, watching hazy stars drift past his little vantage point on the sky.


	3. Chapter 3

_You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

The words steal around the shadows in his mind and chase each other about his moonlit bedroom. His mind is settled now, aided by the cool water poured down his throat on arrival at his house. Scotland and Wales have already stumbled into their old bedrooms in England's too-large house with surprising automation. It's something neither England nor the nameless (bedraggled) young man had the wherewithal to question or prevent so said young man only allows England to vomit compulsively into the toilet and then drags him into another bedroom (mercifully, it's England's). England reflects that the man managed reasonably well, given that he was far too young to have been at Westminster for long.

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

Ah, and his brother's words are back for another round of his brain. His throat feels scratchy and dry and throbs. There is day-old water at his bedside table. There's also probably a pack of paracetamol in that clutter, which he will need for tomorrow's headache. But England knows it's not really water or pain medicine that he wants.

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

The words have been playing around his mind for hours now, probably. He has lost count, staring mutely and peacefully at his white-washed ceiling, fingers interlaced neatly on his stomach. Drunk and tired as he is, these two sentences fight sleep impressively. These and a sepia image of a radiating smile and flick of dark, glossy hair. India.

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

But he knows the image is alone. It is surrounded by darker memories, memories he'd rather forget, memories of her glare, her hate, her anger. Memories that are the reason he and India no longer speak beyond the occasional greeting.

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

No, maybe he can't. But by God, does he want to. He is intoxicated by her, and has been for a long time. Scotland's words unearth a base need to prove his brother wrong. But it is something that Scotland's challenges have always evoked in England – and Wales, and North. England must temper this reaction with weary logic. India doesn't love him. Does she? Can she?

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

Oh, but I can, Scotland, is what he wants to say. And it is this arrogance, and his tiredness (and mostly the way his torso aches when the sound of India's laugh plays through his mind) that are the reasons for the weakening dam of logic finally bursting in his mind. And the flood is free.

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

I bloody well can. Just you wait. I'll speak to her. I'll court her. Apologise to her (beg, plead…)

 _You're a wee scaredy-cat, aren't ya? You can't get together with her. I bet you can't._

England makes a plan. He will seek her out after the next World Meeting. They will speak. It will work.

And it is with this thought, the first positive thought of the night, that England finally succumbs to the sweet bliss of sleep.


End file.
